Difficile est saturam non scriber
by immer wenn es dunkel wird
Summary: He keeps the crucifix of her rosary firmly between their lips as he kisses her,  and she tastes the blood of the New World sticking to the silver.    historical   not-quite-but-actually-yes Spain x Belgium


_Difficile est saturam non scriber_

| a tribute to the more darker aspects of Spain's history/personality. |

Details: This is -(pretentiously) historical, -some sort of nation-centric critique towards Catholicism, -a portrayal of a more 'mature' Spain x Belgium relationship and perhaps most importantly an attempt at realistic character depiction.

Warning: This contains diverse time-jumps, mentions of colonialism, imperialism and religious practices.

Inspired by: Maiden of the Moon's writing and orangemangoes' poignant recollections.

Summary: He keeps the crucifix of her rosary firmly between their lips as he kisses her, {and she tastes the blood of the New World sticking to the silver.}

_I hereby disclaim any rights_.

* * *

><p><strong><em>†<em>**

_His fingertips brush against his forehead._

_"In the name of the Father."_

**_†_**

**16****th**** of November; 1532**

One hundred sixty-nine soldiers of the Spanish crown, sixty-two infantrymen and one hundred and five horsemen, hiked through the unruly highlands of a lap of land afterwards known to the world as Peru, the hoofs of their steeds squashing the tall blades of grass and the chinking of the metal of their armours could almost be considered melodious. Some soldiers tittle-tattled in husky, hoarse, exhausted voices and they wondered, oh-so-silently and oh-so-complacently _when_ they would arrive at this Eden-esque promised city of gold and silver and sparkling glittering beckoning gems. Their discontent whispers half-reaching the ears of the statuesque ringleader of this military parade, were left to resonate in the woods, in between distorted ochre stems of trees and competing with the loud screeching of exotic birds. Lazy wisps of woollen white drift above in a blanket of azure; the timber appeared more scarce around these areas and a human-made trail of dirt and flatly pounded pasturage was recognisable. One of the commanders spurred his horse, the heels of his thick boots digging in the animal's flanks and with a quick turn of the wrists, he was facing his army of faithful ants with a wide, sharp grin. His comrade mimicked the antics, the steel of his breastplate gleaming underneath the smouldering sunbeams, and if one observed more carefully, beads of sweat left a slick trail down the man's temple.

He addresses his troops with a drawl, in a harsh and authoritarian tone, his gauntlet-covered fingers tapping his saddle and his Adam's apple rises and falls. "Men, we are in close proximity of our destination." Pitch black birds with multi-coloured beaks swayed over the commanders. "As your leader, Francisco Pizarro, loyal subject to the Spanish empire," the grinning figure attempts –and fails- to not roll his eyes at the latter statement. "I am entrusted with the success of this particular mission." His speech continued and every word –every syllable- was lavishly coated with intellectualism and superiority.

It was so humanly simple, the figure contemplated while the reigns of his horse were firmly in between his gloved hands and his boots dig into its sides, to wage war under false pretences. (_He wasn't human, now was he? __**No.**_) They had started marching again, down the itsy-bitsy spidery road of dust and nature, carrying their muskets on their backs and their gunpowder in pouches around their waist, and the pants of both man and animal was echoing in the figure's eardrum. Pizarro strode ahead; preparing himself mentally for the collision between his forces and those of the 'heathen' foe, the element of surprise at their disposal and the figure can _see_ how sweet promises of riches drown the statuesque ringleader and his parade of ants in an intoxicated state like generous amounts of wine would do~ and he _knows_ the feeling, the bliss because they are loyal subjects to the Spanish Empire, loyal subjects to him.

His grin stretches a few teeth each side as he can smell the scent of victory ascending from the horizon.

* * *

><p><strong>15<strong>**th**** of July; 1533**

Their encampment was put to the test by heavy rainfall; bullet-shaped drops pouring down their improvised huts and tents, the soil was a slosh of mud, water and fallen blades of grass and a few infantrymen scurried in full panoply towards their respective hiding places. Underneath his emerald gaze, the rain doesn't dwindle or dim, the circumstances were promising seeing as how the negotiations regarding the ransom for the abducted emperor (sprawled on the dry ground of his tent, gasping and blinking continuously...) but the weather put the soldiers in a rather foul mood and Pizarro could impend the men for only that long. The figure employs his clownish grin again as he turns to regard the captive, warbling and wiggling in a bundle of ropes, and he crouches, his scarlet coat with golden embroidery bellows and rests against his calves, and he tilts his head lightly to the right in thought. His index finger taps impatiently against his chin.

"Now.." He trails off and the fallen ruler obstinately refuses to acknowledge the figure. "_Amigo_, it isn't exactly," he pauses and the digit halts the irritating tip-tap against skin as well, "wise, to –uh- move around when tied up." Darkly toned flesh showed marks of flustered and bruised vermillion, He's squirming and wrestling again, writhing like a mouse trapped between fingers by its tail.

The figure guffaws, deep and dark and _passionately_, and he stands upright, now towering over the despot in fetters, peering down with illuminating emerald irises. The tip of his leather boot was suddenly jabbed against the other's breastbone, drawing a yelp of pain, frustration and fear from sandpaper-dry parted lips. He employs more force, all the while an amused grin sprawled on his features and coerces more sounds to erupt from the emperor's open hoarse throat. His hair splattered over his sweaty glistening forehead in strips of moist greasy black and the pair of ambers in his eye sockets were burning in hatred and helplessness, the ropes cut into his wrists, ankles, abdomen and patella's and he started coughing violently as his palate was raw from screaming.

Upturned lips, a bright vigilant gleam in emerald irises –_beware of the green beast_- and with a cooing voice, sweet as molasses, the figure coos, "I sincerely hope," he wheedled his captive with a remnant of his former position, "solar god, that you'll take this knowledge to the heart." Slender fingers curled underneath his jaw and tilted his head upwards, vaingloriously and heavy eyelids half-covers those wicked orbs, "You will lay perfectly still." His right foot pushes the emperor back down and the collision of flesh and pounded earth ends with a hollow 'plop'.

Someone entered his threshold; the sail-opening was pushed aside and a soaking, oxygen-snatching scout trudged inside. Water drip-dripping from his dishevelled hair, split-splattering on the metal of his full panoply, the footman shakes his head in a canine manner and lowers it; a tardy attempt at showing respect. The figure approaches him, collected composure and for a moment the Inca, who the scout was so obviously eyeing, is forgotten, a fallen candlestick on the floor someone_any_one doesn't pick up.

"Sir Antonio!" He salutes with a newfound air of professionalism, "Those," he spats out the following two words, "_heathen pigs_, have agreed to send a convoy with the desired ransom." Like a dog awaiting a chunk, the scout beams at the declaration.

They've waited for nearly eight months, an incredulous, inane amount of time slipped like grains of sand through their fingers. The figure smiles in content, relief and holds a sway in his step as he circles around the scout, a lone wolf eying a defenceless prey. Unnerved, the footman rubs his elbow and nervously grimaces.

"Excellent job, compañero." Antonio pats his back and just –merely- laughs. "So tell me," he lazily flicks his fingertip against his chin and he lilts seemingly innocent, "when oh-when will our guests arrive?"

Somehow the sound, deep, dark and _passionate_, chilled the scout more than the freezing water running down his spine. "At dawn, sir." He answers truthfully, arms rigidly by his side and shaking_shaking_shaking. Yet the footman, in his shiny armor and soaking to the marrow, can't resist the urge to ask; "What will we do with the captive then, sir?"

Antonio eyes his halberd in the corner of the tent inconspicuously and softly rubs his chin as if lost deep in thought, "Oh, I can imagine a solution or two."

* * *

><p><strong>16<strong>**th**** of November, 1532**

When the one hundred sixty-nine soldiers arrived, the night had gracefully, delicately painted the city, latter known as Cajamarca a tint of ethereal silver; when the one hundred sixty-nine soldiers left, the moon, a Cheshire smile of a non-existent cat, playfully skipped behind and in front of the thick carpet of ink-blue on repeat and the pyramid-like temples, home of ancient deities, were a shade of teal. Caws, screams and cries synched simultaneously with the watery crimson grief of the irrigation canals, some of the crops were mowed down by swords and there was a putrid, rotten stench ventilating the premises, clinging to the trees, stones and soil. There had been, give or take, eighty thousand enemies, armed with primitive weapons and naked torsos gleaming with sweat on sun-kissed skin and curious eyes observing and scrutinizing and _watching_.

They dispersed once one of the horses starts to neigh loudly, in discontent of standing still for so long and his hoof scraped the earth, leaving a tiny trail of swollen mud. The ringleader didn't waste time in shouting commands; _Kill them! Take their leader prisoner! Destroy! Conquer!_ And so they did; these marionettes of God, Spain and whatever puppeteer they offer their loyalty. The smell of gunpowder flaring into the crisp air of dusk, the consistent persistent **bang-bang-bang**, the fear budding and springing like a blossom in bloom and the clinking of gold, hanging on a string around the emperor's neck as he tried to flee. This magical, enchanting sound encouraged the figure in scarlet to spur his horse to go faster and faster, his halberd, majestic and large, striking down the personal guard, the tearing of flesh, the breaking of bone.

Antonio's attention was soon drawn to a small child, trembling in awe and mortification, half-shielding himself behind a stepped-wall. His frail hand, shimmering like gold underneath the moon's glow, resting on the corner, his face half-hidden behind stone and a coal fringe. The figure produced an overweening amused smile, devilish and minatory, directed at the shivering child, whose mouth is agape and whose saliva bubbles near the ends of his lips like sheer white pearls. His horse is guided into the boy's direction, the majestic animal shakes its head and neck, the manes flying from one side to another and the child is startled.

"Don't worry," Antonio soothes, "I will be back for you later, niño." {And he'd name the boy Peru, because it'll suit him, he's _positive_.}

When the one hundred sixty-two soldiers left; the moon dances a pas-de-deux with the clouds, a shimmer of ethereal silver trickling down between needle-holes of woollen ink-blue and the corpses of seven thousand soldiers lay perfectly still in twisted, crooked and angled positions. Their leader, their solar god, was in fetters, tied to the horse of a Spaniard conquistador, weeping and lamenting in a soon-to-be dead tongue and yanked forwards underneath sardonic laughter. His necklace, a string with rectangular golden slivers, now hangs on the reigns of Antonio's horse.

And in their absence, the watery crimson irrigation canals weep.

* * *

><p><strong>16<strong>**th**** of July, 1533**

Gold, in all its splendour and enchantment, brought in carts by silhouettes with lowered heads and grim faces.

Francisco Pizarro presents to them the fallen solar god, a shadow of what he had been, of what he should've been. A walking carcass, laced with cuts and bruises, a dark canvas splattered with red and blue and mauve, and he praises his former subjects for their devotion and obedience in a soft, sorrowful voice. They're standing in a half ellipse around him, these wives and husbands with monochrome sadness gleaming in their pupils. The ringleader pushes him forwards, the emperor trips, wrists tied together and feet shifting and he tumbles down with a screech. They cower, some men desiring to revolt, others searching the area for escape routes.

And then, in a twisted finale of a circus act, Antonio comes out in the open with the blade of his halberd begging for blood. He holds the shaft confidently, striding proudly towards the struggling idol, who was suppressed by the sole of a boot pressed against his cheek. He glances at his executioner in trepidation and starts wailing, imploring in his soon-to-be dead tongue for mercy, for _life_ and Francisco clasps his hands in prayer.

"Holy Lord, in your name, we trust to expand your benevolence. We bring to you this offer, this heathen who refuses to make amends and submit to your rule." He recites and the soldiers immediately dab their fingertips against their forehead, abdomen, right and left shoulder respectively.

Everyone shouts 'amen' besides the figure in scarlet; his smile turns more 'v'-shaped and instead of gazing at the sky, at the heavens, he absently directs his emerald gaze at the carts of twinkling, beckoning gold. He ceremoniously decrees, "Off with your head." And the weapon falls, swiftly, irremissibly and inevitably; the blade splits the neck in two and separates brain from heart.

* * *

><p><strong><em>†<em>**

_He dabs his fingertips against his abdomen_

_"The name of the Son."_

**_†_**

**16****th**** of November, 1506**

They, the corseted and ensnared vultures with garnet powdered faces and muslin bodices, tittle-tattle about diverse subjects; about displaying their piety, about the incoming flux of silver and gold, about ocean-far islands, about the 'New World", and as servant of the Spanish empire, she listens silently in a corner, with her hands folded against the fabric of her apron. Her head dipped low in reverie; frumpish ringlets of spun gold brushing against waxen cheeks and half-lidded peridots staring at the carpeted floor. The vultures, the Queen and her consorts, were in male company for once; a man with tousled chestnut strands, irises reminiscent of clovers and the most charming of smiles. He is seated, knees grazing, hands gripping patella's and smiling, smiling, _smiling_ as if he had never done anything else but smile, near the Queen in her lavish gown, decorated with strings of pinkish pearls and surrounded by lash-battering, cheek-flustering birds. Their beaks never ceasing to chirp and cackle and he nods in response because it is becoming of someone /_something _/ like him.

"Antonio, you must tell us about Santo Domingo again; about the weather circumstances, the endless beaches..." Queen Joanna crooned in delight, "Every little detail..." Their avian cackling bounced off the viridian walls, resonated underneath the chandeliers with its crystalline tears and fled underneath the ottomans and armchairs.

He tempts them, fingers tip-tapping against the wooden armrest of his seat and his head ever so slightly tilted to the left, his cheeks gleaming due to the sunrays cascading inside from the large open windows. She is discretely hidden near the double-doors, regarding them in blithe amusement as he tell-tales about scarcely clothed barbarians, wielding spears from the ancient days and dancing in circles 'round and 'round a fake idol. She has heard this particular story a dozen times before; but the Queen is forgetful _(mad__, some deadpan in whispers, but ssssh.)_ and requests the same tale again and again and every time he spins his spidery web full of exaggerations and half-truths and almost-lies, she applauds in glee.

He scrapes his throat, glancing around the saloon, and notices how the hem of her lapus-lazuli dress disappears through the double-doors, a wisp of fabric, a challenge arises and who is he to turn down this game of hide and seek?- So the figure 'apologizes for the sudden inconvenience but he suddenly, conveniently, remembers he promised the not-child Romano to aid him in cleaning the tomatoes for dinner, and oh my fair lady, he is such a sweetheart and of course there will be more stories; more time, but not right now.' So he shoves the armchair with the brocade coating backwards, gives the cawing crows an exuberant bow and strides with a quip and a wink through the gaping doorway.

"Are you looking for someone, sir Antonio?" A taunting soprano beckons, and he can nearly smell her; lilies and oranges and patchouli. "Perhaps just around the corner?" The voice suggests and he smirks, trotting in an increased pace until he half-collides into her.

Pushing her gently against the wall, he finally shows her a genuine smile, this lovely not-woman, and slides a few wheat-tinted curls behind her left ear, "How astute you are, little robin." His breath tickles the shell of her ear and she giggles lowly.

If her breasts heaved, they would be pressed against his broad chest, this betrays their close proximity, just like the rose-petal pink blush spread upon her maxillas. "Perhaps I may be of your assistance then," she exhales and her smirk is feline.

"Oh?" He replies and his face comes _closer_ and she inhales him, deeper and deeper, until his scent explodes in her nostrils.

The palm of his hand is placed flatly right next to her mob of sloppy curls, "Of course," she lilts seductively, "tell me the name of whom you search..."

And the big bad wolf answers truthfully, "Bélgica..." He huffs and puffs and burns his lips upon her soft, welcoming ones, the laugh she was about to emit came out muffled and stifled.

* * *

><p>"<em>I might be in love with you."<em>

"_Sir Antonio, I might reciprocate your feelings, but I need a bit more persuasion."_

"_...mmh.." _

"_...uhn.. uh... Well, that was certainly convincing..."_

"_Need I kiss you senseless before you finally return the sentiments? You know I will."_

_-laughter-_

"_-dying giggles- Oh, Antonio, you make the cutest pouting face, even more adorable than Romano. Well, I *might* be in love with you as well."_

"_... I'm not nearly as cute as Romano."_

"_I hope that offer of kissing me senseless still stands?"_

"_I'm entirely at your disposal, little robin."_

* * *

><p><strong>16<strong>**th**** of November, 1534**

Leaves flutter in pirouettes, tip-toe upon the cobblestone courtyard and dance in coordination with the moaning autumn wind. Streaks of orange, vermillion and mauve are crucified against the azure sky as the sun slowly descends behind a line in the far distance. She, the lovely not-woman, is on her knees, purposely pulling the weeds and moss from between the stones and dumping them in a wooden bucket. Humming a children's tune, her peridots fail to acknowledge the looming shadow, appearing from behind her and enveloping her in a gray-tinted embrace. Two hands seal away her eyes from the world and she frowns, about to scold whom she suspects to be the not-child but the limbs are too big and too calloused. Her mouth falls open in realization and she squeaks out a name, unsure, hopeful and weakly.

"Antonio?" They shift, gripping at her shoulders instead and the figure leans in closer, his cheek brushing against her blonde tresses.

He laughs, deeply and _passionately_, -and for some reason it sends unpleasant shivers down her spine-, "Astute as ever, little robin."

And the hands start to rub her bare upper-arms, soothingly so, hypnotically even, yet she doesn't stop him. "Welcome home," the lovely not-woman murmurs, leaning into his backwards embrace.

The limbs vanish for an instant, leaving heat in their wake and something chimes, clear as a bell and almost as pleasurable, before she fully understands the situation, a rosary was pulled over her head and a crucifix rested upon her breastbone. Manufactured completely out of silver; tiny beads attached by a chain, Christ on his cross dangling on a rectangular picture of the Virgin. Her smile accrued as she fingers the gift idly and in appreciation she pecks the side of his nose.

"Peruvian craft..." The figure proudly declares, "Oh, what an endearing _helpless_ child this one is... I named him Gabriel, after the..."

She finishes the sentence for him, "Right hand of God." Suddenly and abruptly, she turns around and situates herself right in front of him. (Suddenly and abruptly, the trinket turns acidic.)

Slightly dazed, Antonio scratches his temple, but he focuses back upon the trinket around her neck, "So.. Do you like it?"

Perhaps he takes her words too lightly when she claims he 'really shouldn't have.'

* * *

><p><strong>17<strong>**th**** of November, 1534**

Just around midnight, her bedroom door creaks open, allowing a beam of candlelight to stream into the dark chambers, she throws the covers off her pale porcelain-like legs and steps daintily out of her bed. Noting his wide grin, she hesitates for a split-second but feels her guard slipping and falling, when his fingers brush against hers and they are woven together as tightly as her famed tapestries. He takes the lead in this unspoken deaf tango and crawls underneath her sheets, she complies for their hands are still one. Their legs brush and entangle, their lips follow and their tongues continue the dance. They enrol in a linen cocoon, two caterpillars forming one beautiful butterfly, bodies searching contact despite all the fabric, all the cloth.

When he breaks the kiss, she gasps for air and is grateful for the lack of light, because her cheeks resemble cherries and she feels the warmth radiating from them. His hand is fumbling, grabbling for something on her nightstand and not one to suppress her curiosity easily, she inquires in a husky soprano, "Sir Antonio, I can assure you, your hands should be fondling something else right.. _now._"

Dimmed laughter spreads into every corner of the chamber, he dips his head low to reward his impatient lover and rakes his teeth against her pumping jugular. She moans in appreciation, "Much better.."

His canines are soon replaced by cool silver, the not-woman squeals in surprise and her fingertips feel tiny silver beads trailing a path down her exposed throat. The mattress shifts as he leans in closer and presses the crucifix against her half-parted plump lips.

"Stop this nonsense at once..." She chides, trapped in their synthetic embrace of sheets and fabric.

But instead, the big bad wolf huffs and puffs and burns his mouth against the cross, and as a logical outcome, against hers as well. The crucifix drops from between them, his tongue explores her sweet cavity and tries to dig deeper. The little robin isn't sure whether he is being blasphemous or pietistic, but she is certain about one certain aspect; the not-woman tasted the invisible blood of the New World's children and the vile taste, rather than the kiss, the action, _him_, leaves her panting.

* * *

><p><strong><em>†<em>**

_He touches his right and left shoulders in that order respectively_

_"The name of the Holy Spirit."_

**_†_**

**16****th**** of November 1534**

Antonio lulls the not-child Romano to sleep tonight; he sings about a harmless bird being murdered by a less harmless bird, about emotions, sentiments the not-child fails to understand but the steady rhythm rocks him into slumber. The not-boy had been anything but enthusiastic to greet the figure returning from his long journey, scowling and scoffing; hissing in a manner similar to a cornered kitten. However, when Antonio deemed the time right to guide the not-boy, removing the bundle of gauze and lace patched together as a green dress and replacing by a plain white nightgown and sending their hopes to the Lord, the not-child blinked lazily and yawned and whispered somewhere in between, "Glad you're back, _bastardo_."

He shows his amusement by grinning and ruffles the unruly chestnut brown locks upon his head. "Oh? You seemed so sour just minutes ago, little tomato."

Growling, the not-boy slaps away his affection and retorts, "Not because you're **back**..." this comes out matter of fact, "Just 'cuz.. Well, Bel was kind of sad you left and stuff... So don't leave her alone anymore!" He concludes and acts like his word is final.

"Ah," the figure lets out, "Naturally, if you are so concerned with her wellbeing, how could I ever _dare_, really, work up the very nerve of boarding a ship again?"

His cheeks bulb and are dusted a fine shade of red; "Don't mock me! Now go do something useful for a change and sing me a lullaby!"

* * *

><p><strong>17<strong>**th**** of November 1534**

Romano is untactful because he's young, or at least, so she reasons and thus answers his question seriously.

"Why did the tomato bastard leave in the first place?" Stuck in a curtain-fire of inquiries. "What is his business there anyways? Doesn't he realize we-uh you need him?"

She sighs and straightens his maroon cover, "Because he makes sure he finds the best precious metals to forge our gifts with, he does so because he loves us."

Crossing his arms in discontent, tapping spidertine fingers against upper-arms, the not-child keens on a question-like tone, "But do you love him as well?"

Choosing to evade the latter, the not-woman bends over him and her lips linger against his forehead like a ghost searching one last contact, "You should sleep."

But Romano does not give up so easily, and he whines, "You didn't answer! Do. You. Love. Him?"

"I might."

* * *

><p>"<em>You hardly wear your rosary nowadays..." Antonio remarks as his tongue paints a slick trail of saliva down her jaw line; she shivers and pulls back. He grins, not because he's glad, but because it has become his standard response.<em>

_She fiddles with her apron, "I.. –erm- Well," for once his astute little robin seems tongue-tied, "I just can't seem to get the stains out of the silver."_

_Intrigued by her response, the figure wanders down her spine, her skin reacting even though there is cloth separating them and he rests mere inches above her backside. He leans down and sneers, "What stains?"_

_She kisses him, turns and fidgets, "Don't worry about it." Her smile reassures him, fools him, and she lets him lead their imagined tango again. _

{After all; invisible blood stains aren't stains; and what he does not know cannot harm her.}

* * *

><p><strong><em>†<em>**

_And the weapon falls, slices and cuts; destroys._

_"Off with your head."_

**_†_**

He knew all about human whims; about gold which glitters and waging war under false pretences. He knew all about might-love and might-lust. He knew all about masquerading the devil and the saint, and he knew there was a fine silver lining between the two roles. He knew about playing the doting father and the merciless exploiter.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo knew all about playing human, and he played human _passionately_. If his dear Joana required him to spin fairytales, he'd fantasize a web together, if dear Francisco wanted him to pray to a God who was as false an idol as the emperor he had decapitated, then he'd sit on his knees and he'd smile all along.

Because...

(_He wasn't human, now was he? __**No.**_)

He is the Spanish empire and he wears his hide with pride.

* * *

><p>If you'd manage to spot all the purple smudges amongst this story, then I salute you.<p>

Now, a penny for your thoughts?


End file.
